


My Ghost

by whatsacleverusername



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Arkham Asylum, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, Gen, Horror, Jonathan Crane and Scarecrow are Different People, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Paranoia, Paranormal, Strangulation, a few important things about this version of jon here, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-13 16:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatsacleverusername/pseuds/whatsacleverusername
Summary: Days pass slow in slippers and robe,But my ghost still bangs on the roof





	My Ghost

He’d heard many names before. Hick. Spud. Strawman. Haybale. If he knew any less about the human mind and its wicked creativity, he might say he’s heard them all. Of course he’d heard _demon_ before- his dear old Granny ever so fondly referred to him as _Devil spawn_ more times than he can count- but it’s certainly different coming from the horse’s mouth, albeit a different breed. James Craddock, Gentleman Ghost, master thief, and incorporeal thorn in his side so graciously informed him he picked up a less than friendly spiritual hitchhiker somewhere along the line, going as far as to assure him it’s the root of, as he put it, “his little Scarecrow problem” and why he couldn’t seem to put his finger on a diagnosis. Jonathan, of course, made the sensible reply of showing him the blue nth metal ring on his left hand, the spectre somehow paling more at the unspoken threat and hastily disappearing. Quite literally. If only more nuisances could be so timely…

Now, _of course_ he’d heard his condition referred to as all manner of things as well. The most obnoxious being those implying it’s some separate entity from himself. As far as he’s concerned, it’s just a damn nuisance. Ignoring the fact that he dreads the day Scarecrow takes control at the wrong time, or for the _last_ time… He’s not afraid, of course. Why would he be afraid of himself? Again, it would just be a nuisance for him to accidentally harm one of his more useful associates. Not to mention it horribly contradicts his efforts in trying to ease the control of fear on those that need it most. No matter. It’s simply something else to figure out, a side project if ever there was one. He’s narrowed it down, at least; it has to be a wildly extreme case of either paranoid schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder, with some underlying conditions. Perhaps even undocumented symptoms of others. Whatever it may be, it’s entirely _him_, and _he_ is ultimately in control.

However, as the looming black figure sits in the corner of his infirmary room- a trip courtesy of one such “episode”- eyeing him up with unseen, predatory eyes, he feels his heart simultaneously freeze in his chest and threaten to beat out of it, beginning to second guess his convictions all over again. He attempts to force something out, willing any sound to pass between his lips, but manages not even a ragged breath. He can hear the _thing_ breathing, though, like it’s stealing every breath he tries to take. Rasping, gravely, laborious, laced with the sound of too many voices whispering all at once. He’d heard of sleep paralysis many years ago, immediately curious about its effects and symptoms, though he never remembered having any episodes himself, merely more nightmares than he’d be willing to admit to. His mind is racing too fast to make the connection now as the thing stares at him, a feeling of pure contempt radiating off it. He finally manages a sound, a sharp, fearful gasp, as it suddenly rises, its head scraping the ceiling as it stretches and contorts to loom over his bed. Its eyes are visible then, malicious orbs glaring down like headlights through a murky, black fog. Leaning down further, a distortion of his Scarecrow mask parts through the smog, stained, needle like teeth torn through the burlap around the mouth to reveal a grisly frown. The whispering raises in volume, swarming around them as the already dim, flickering fluorescents fade, the thing’s very presence absorbing all light around it. Stopping just inches away from his face, Jonathan can make out the exposed musculature of its face peeking out from under the mask despite his horrible eyesight, its breath like a hundred burning corpses as it washes over him.

Two clear voices rising above the whispers, his own and something else’s, it rasps, “you’ve been a fool, Johnny. You’ve done a foolish thing.”

Jonathan opens his mouth, whether to scream or plead for mercy is unclear, only for a clawed hand to seize his throat. He can feel the grasp sapping all of the heat from his thin body, the cold nearly burning him on contact.

“Do you know what you’ve done, Johnny?” it asks.

Barely managing, he stiffly shakes his head, the small motion being all he’s allowed.

“You know,” it assures. “_You’re_ in charge, right, Johnny?”

Recalling the events that wound him up in this damn infirmary, specifically the ones he was conscious for, the sound of bones snapping, the smell of chemicals, the feeling of his chest burning, the taste of someone else’s blood in his mouth- Squeezing his eyes shut, Jonathan tries to struggle out of the iron grip around his neck, thrashing as best he can in his restraints. The sedatives in his system don’t help any.

Constricting its grip, it cooes, “poor little Johnny. _You_ didn’t mean to, did you?”

He feels it shift next to him, a weight on the rickety bed making it creak in protest.

“What if they didn’t have guns trained on you at the time, I wonder,” it muses. “Do you think there’d only be three letters home?”

The weight continuing to move, it presses down on the bullet wound just above his stomach, more and more weight pushing down until all of the air in his lungs is forced out.

“‘We’re so sorry about Adam, Mr. and Mrs. Lee,’” it taunts, “‘Johnny had another little temper tantrum. We’re so sorry about Thomas, Mr. and Mrs. Smith- About Susan, Mr. Brown- Larry, Mrs. Woods-’”

“Stop-” Jonathan wheezes out, weakly trying to knock the thing off of him.

Claws dig into his skin as a bone rattling snarl blows over him like a hurricane, the overwhelming stench of death and decay threatening to knock him out, it somehow increases its weight on his chest, certain his ribs will crack at any moment.

“You never were in charge, Johnny boy,” it hisses as Jonathan’s vision begins to swim. “You never were _anything_. All you’ve ever been good for is spreading agony and terror. Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

It forces him to nod, jerking his neck back and forth, a disgusting chorus of laughter sounding around him. A dull ringing begins in his ears as he’s throttled, even as the force around his neck disappears, even as the weight on his chest dissipates. It isn’t until small but strong hands shake him does he realize the ringing is an alarm, and he’s hyperventilating. He forces his eyes open again, greeted with the unfocused face of a human rather than the all too clear vision.

He nearly sobs in relief when he recognizes the voice as Harleen, concern in her words as she says, “didja hear me? We gotta go!”

A hand flying up to grab her shoulder of its own accord, he stares up at her, evidently managing to communicate his current petrified state without even trying to. Gently saying something the rising panic drowns out, she carefully picks him up, the outrageously strong woman more than managing to lift his worryingly light body like a terrified child. His head gently cradled, her shoulder shielding his face from the air as she runs, Jonathan can only hold on weakly and tremble as his fear overtakes him. At least he’ll have his panic attack _outside_ of Arkham, if this breakout goes well…

**Author's Note:**

> For Scarecrow Week 2019 Day One "Formidophobia (Fear of Scarecrows)" :}


End file.
